


First to Three

by startrekkingaroundasgard



Series: 31 Days of Ficmas 2020 [16]
Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: 31 Days of Ficmas, Clint Barton-centric, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Fun, Hijinks & Shenanigans, M/M, Sparring, wrapping paper tubes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-16
Updated: 2020-12-16
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:27:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28107762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/startrekkingaroundasgard/pseuds/startrekkingaroundasgard
Summary: Clint and the reader spar with cardboard wrapping paper tubes.
Relationships: Clint Barton/Reader
Series: 31 Days of Ficmas 2020 [16]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2035468
Comments: 3
Kudos: 20





	First to Three

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BarnesnMrNoble](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BarnesnMrNoble/gifts).



Anyone who says that ‘silence is golden’ has never lived with Clint Barton.

There were only three situations in which Clint ever stopped talking. There were: 1. when he was drinking coffee, and even then it was not unusual for the man to try and speak as he inhaled the boiling liquid; 2. briefly mesmerised by a passing dog and 3. unconscious (again, silence was not guaranteed, as he often spoke in his sleep).

Silence at any other time was decidedly not peaceful and meant that Clint was either seriously injured, on highest alert and about to be seriously injured or planning something ridiculous that would, you guessed correctly, end in severe injury.

You were able to rule out a home invasion. For one, Clint was not a quiet fighter. He was of the belief that verbal grunts and screams increased the power behind his punches and, since you had yet to prove otherwise, Clint was one of the loudest and scrappiest fighters you knew. For another, your home was protected by an incredibly obnoxious alarm that warned you of any potential danger to you and your property.

After the last set of ninja assassins had broken in, Clint had gotten Tony to hook you up with the latest Stark Industries’ security grid. Now, you struggled to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night without the system warning of potential danger. So, unless Clint had disabled the alarms – which he never did when you home – you knew that the only danger your partner was in was self inflicted. Not that that calmed your nerves much. He had recently needed a trip to A&E after trying boil an egg. Who knew what damage he could do to himself with scissors.

Thankfully, when he reappeared in the living room a few minutes later, there was no blood and all of his fingers were remarkably in tact. Clint dropped the large armful of presents beneath the tree (one made a particularly concerning cracking noise as it tumbled to the ground) and then he spun around towards you, a wicked grin on his face.

“Uh oh,” you said, setting your phone down. “I’m not going to like this, am I?”

“Aw, sugar, no. Don’t be like that.”

You rolled your eyes and let him pull you to your feet. His arms slid around your waist and you relaxed against his chest, cheek to cheek as you swayed back and forth to some song with too many jingle bells in the background. Clint laced his fingers through yours then twirled you round, narrowly avoiding tripping on the rug and falling into tree.

Splaying your fingers across his back, you hummed lightly as the firm muscles tensed and relaxed beneath your touch. You breathed in his cologne, a scent you were so familiar with now that it was, in your mind, synonymous with home. It brought you peace, freed you from worry and filled your heart with love for your ridiculous man.

“Alright,” you muttered, suitably pliable in his arms. “Tell me why you’re smiling.”

“Because…” Clint paused dramatically. “I finished up the wrapping paper.”

“Don’t tease me, Hawkeye.”

“That’s your department, love.”

Suddenly Clint was dragging you through the house to where he had been holed away for the past two hours. You were relieved to see that nothing had been broken out of frustration although much of the furniture had been pushed to the sides of the room to give him more than adequate space to wrap his gifts, none of which had been bigger than a loaf of bread.

You found yourself picturing Clint fighting the brightly coloured paper, sellotape hanging off every inch of skin as he fought, and lost, the battle to wrap his gifts. You pushed the amusing images aside, however, when you saw, as promised, two empty tubes in the centre of the room.

The moment you freed your hand from Clint’s, the wordless challenge was issued. A second of truce passed before you both leapt forward, limbs flailing wildly as you charged into the centre to grab your weapon. Tube in hand, you backed away and took your starting stance – legs wide, cardboard staff in the air, expression fierce. Clint adopted a similar position and you slowly circled one another, patiently awaiting an opening.

For all his skills in fighting, Clint had always been, and would always be, a strike first kind of man. His years in the circus had taught him never to waste an opportunity, even a questionable one, and that the fastest, strongest man always won. It was that mentality that you were counting on. When he charged across the room, you avoided his attack with a simple side step and whacked him on the ass as he passed.

“One, nil,” you declared.

Clint narrowed his eyes, those stunning baby blues sparkling like the twinkling lights around the tree as he reconsidered his strategy. That consideration lasted an entire three seconds before he threw technique to the wind and came at you with the frantic energy of a berserker. You blocked each of his attacks with your own tube but he was backing you into a corner and the frequent, violent blows were starting to take their toll on the structure of your tube. 

A well executed feint earned Clint his first point as you leaned directly into his actual hit. “One all. First to three, right?”

“Naturally.”

You shoved his chest and rolled off to the side, striking his side for a second point in the process. You were immediately more comfortable to have your back to the rest of the room versus pressed up against the wall. Of course, there were plenty of times when you’d have loved Clint to press you up against the wall but in the middle of such an important competition was not one of them. “Two, one. Come on, Hawkeye. You’re making this too easy.”

In retrospect, taunting Clint was probably not your best idea ever. His smile grew even wider and he launched himself over the arm of a sofa, did an absolutely unnecessary but incredibly impressive somersault in the air and landed behind you. He bopped the top of your head with the cardboard tube and proudly proclaimed, “Two all.”

Deadly focused now, you swirled around to face your partner and raised your dented tube. It was looking worse for wear now and probably only had another two or three defensive blocks in it. Clint knew it took and made short work of beating the remaining strength from your cardboard weapon. It bent depressingly in the centre and then you knew then that it would be of no more use to you any more.

However, you were not yet defeated.

Ducking another blow, you jumped onto Clint’s back and locked your legs around his middle. You reached around his head, plucked his tube from his grip and brought it down between his legs. “Three!”

Dramatic as ever, Clint fell to his knees and groaned, “I am defeated.”

You pressed a kiss to the top of his head and disentangled yourself from around his body. “Better luck next year, baby. I’m gonna run a bath, come join me if you want.”

Clint was on his feet before you’d even finished the invitation, all apparent pain gone in the blink of an eye. You shook your head and padded after him, wondering what you’d ever done to deserve the wonder that was Clint Barton.


End file.
